


This Is God

by mothra_leo



Category: A Nightmare on Elm Street (Movies 1984-1994)
Genre: 18+ reader, Blood, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Fred is kind of manipulative, Manipulation, Other, Power Dynamics, but not using 'bitch' or 'princess' as much as he might, gender neutral reader, gettin' meta here, his voice is hard to write, takes place in a dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-09 22:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20517518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothra_leo/pseuds/mothra_leo
Summary: Fred likes what you're doing with him. You, on the other hand, have some entirely reasonable reservations; but here you are anyway...(note: hey MDCBD, I think I accidentally deleted your comment! I'm so sorry! … :( I've got the text in the notification e-mail but not in comment form... oof)





	1. Chapter 1

Fred is very lithe; you're comfortable straddling him, your weight bearing down on his hips. At one point, it surprised you that he was really sort of a string bean, but now you're used to it. He's strong, anyway; stronger than you.

Right now he's panting softly, watching you, and he's letting you treat him like he's actually _weak_.

His glove is warm on your hand. Is it the same glove from when he was alive? You've never asked; it doesn't matter, anyway-even if it's just a dream object, a recreation, it's killed people. It's on your hand now, uncaring and heavy, and you're pressing it flat against the top of his sternum, resting the blades clear across his neck.

His unscarred neck; because a moment ago, he'd considered an idea as he pulled you on top of him, and then you were looking down on the untouched, sardonic, handsome face that Fred had worn in life.

“Go ahead,” he smirks. “I'm just a man. I'm practically helpless.” His expression is pure calculated innocence. “What're you waiting for?” He clarifies just how far he wants you to go; he reaches up, grabs your wrist above the glove's leather, and shoves it harder against his neck. He gasps, almost as if he really didn't expect the pain.

His facade slips a little. He watches you watch as the blades slit skin, as blood wells up, and you feel the density of flesh pressing against the blades. Your weight shifts on his hips as he squirms.

He likes watching you. He knows you're uncertain, nearly unwilling; he likes the idea that he's taking a compassionate, sweet human- his human- and taking them further down his murderous road. He can feel the hesitation in your hands, the way you won't put any weight behind the glove.

He lets go, then, and keeps his hands down at his sides. Like he's harmless.

“That's good,” he purrs, his voice deep. “It feels _good_.”

“You would like that,” you say; but you move a finger, watching the copper hinge pivot, watching a silvery red-stained blade slide out of the shallow cut it's made. You stroke it along the surface of his throat, watching the smeared blood you leave behind. You shouldn't be okay with this. You shouldn't have let him talk you into it; it doesn't matter that this is only a dream, that you can't kill him-

“You know I'm the one in control here,” he adds. Of course he knows what's going on in your mind. “I could get you off me before you knew you were dead.” His lips spread into a grin, teeth bared. “You're mine. My pet. You're doing such a good job. Now-” and his voice drops again- “Do it harder this time. _Hurt me_.” His cold expression is unnerving on such a warm face.

You take in a breath, hesitating as you raise the blades just a little, positioning them, hardly certain why you're letting this happen. There's a flicker of sheer delight in his eyes as he anticipates it. Then you press- there's so much more blood- and the blades sink in.

Fred groans under you, deep in his chest, and he rolls his hips from underneath. A whine escapes him—there would be more sound, but you're cutting so deep into his throat—and there's blood, too, bubbling up.

Something in his neck slides against a blade, and the reminder that you're cutting into a living body is too sharp. You try to pull the blades out, but you learn another lesson, then; they sink in so easily, but they don't come out without slicing through more. The welling red turns into pulses, a flood, maybe even more blood than Fred should really have, and your hand shakes as you free the glove from his throat entirely. But Fred is gleeful- he forgoes his inaction and pulls you down into a kiss, warm blood spurting up against you, red on his lips. You squeak in alarm as he exhales hard, forcing red out of throat and mouth and nose and all over you-

He cackles wetly, voice conveniently functional. “You'll get used to it,” he purrs, keeping you close over him. “Ohh, you look a lot better like this. All covered in _me_.” He means the double entendre, and grins widely up at you. “But you've got a long way to go, pet. Don't worry. I'll help you practice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I should be writing original work but this popped up and … ffred… why are you like this.  
Fred's enjoying this, but it's not penetrative sex (I wasn't sure if I should be more clear about that, or if being literal is fine).


	2. Slipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out I'm writing the annals of some unnamed Fred victim. What, you thought this was going to be happy?

It's Tuesday, and you're working at a movie theater. It's not a good job; in fact, it's a crap job, and the bad pay is offset only by the frustrations of managers who blame Concessions for their own stupid orders and customers who, at best, you are required to harass about the combo.

Screw the combo. But a job is a job.

At least, it is until you look up at the next customer in a long line of customers (there's no time to sweep the floor, and your feet are starting to hurt) and you see him. Scars, hat, sweater, and all.

“Hey sweet cheeks, can I get a Coke?” Fred asks.

It's a dream. Relief sweeps up in you at the same time as indignation, and you look with fresh eyes at the retail chaos around you.

“Heh. Want to do something about it?” Fred asks, lifting up his gloved hand and clicking two blades together.

You smile, and blood floods suddenly out of all the soda towers, and the lights cut out, and the lobby dissolves into screams as Fred spins around and slashes at the people in line behind him.

You wake up in your bed.

It really is Tuesday, though. That was a weirder dream than usual; but Fred's capricious, and you've almost stopped questioning that. It's not that he's harmless, you tell yourself. It's that I can handle him.

Besides; you've got to go to work. You're working a side job during college; you need to get your shift done and then get to the computer labs.

At least I'm not still in the theater, you tell yourself as you walk to work.

A few hours later, you're nearly willing to go back to just that. A certain coworker broke something, and he's blaming it on you, and fuck if you're not going to be on the hook for thousands. After a long, miserable, horrifying meeting, you're in the bathroom, looking at your miserable reflection.

Washing didn't really help. “Not like it would,” you say.

“Aw, c'mon, honey. You always look good to me.”

He's there, in the mirror.

“Am I _asleep_? You-- Fred, you absolute--” You fume, you're a little relieved, yes, but this isn't helpful. You don't _like_ the times and places he's dragging you into. “Why can't you dream me somewhere nice?”  
“I don't do nice, pet.” The mirror image says. “Go on. If you hate it so much, do something about it.”

You feel it, then. He's given you the glove. He hasn't since the last time you were with him-when he let you make a wreck of his neck, and then, his body.

“Go back out there and show him what happens to people who get away with things they shouldn't,” Fred says to you. His grin is feral. Anticipatory.

He did say you'd get used to it.

“Still a dream, huh?” you say, half to yourself, watching the glove on your hand. You flex the claws up and down, then spread them wide with a metallic _snickt_.

Fred doesn't respond, but you don't notice that as you exit the bathroom.

“Hey. Asshole.” You find your conniving coworker at his desk. Yeah. Sure. It's only a dream.

You're just going to wake up, anyway.

He looks up at you, and you slash him open in the middle of the office.

People see you. People panic. Someone reaches for a phone, while they're running away, and you just stand there-

For a single, sheer moment of horror, you realize that this doesn't feel right, nothing's changing, nothing's unreal about this at all.

And just as suddenly, the nightmare scene dissolves into an oily pulp, and space catches fire and peels away, and you're standing in the boiler room. It's the same as it always is—but there's a body crumpled up against one of the metal railings.

Guilt floods you.

“Huh. Did an okay job,” you hear Fred pronounce. He wasn't there a moment ago, but he is now; leaning over the evidence of your weakness, and judging it like he's talking about someone's apple pie. “Gotta do it quicker, if you want to be sure.”

“I shouldn't have listened,” you say. You flex your right hand; the glove's gone now, of course, but you can still feel where it weighed on you. Your earlier thoughts burn in your mind. _I can handle him._ How stupid am I? You think. He could have done that for real. I could have hurt someone.

You realize that, now, you can't tell what's a dream and what isn't.

“Ohh? Seems like you were pretty entertained by it at the time,” he responds.

“It wasn't real, stop making me think things aren't real, or tricking me-”

“Why shouldn't I?” he gravels. “You're my favorite toy lately. You don't give up easy, and I'm hurtin' for the company.” He looks down at the ruin of your coworker and cackles. “Not like this piece of meat was doin' anything useful with his life. And you?” He looks up at you, and takes a step over the body towards you.

You back away.

“I wonder why you think,” Fred drawls, “you've been awake at all.” His claws scrape against the metal railing as you back down the catwalk. “You know you're mine, precious.”

“I don't want to be yours,” you protest.

“You haven't got a choice, pet,” Fred spits. “How many dreams have you had of me? How many naughty tete-a-tetes, how many little lessons-- ohh, you don't get a choice anymore.”

He stops, having cornered you at the end of the catwalks, and gestures back towards the body.

“He thought he was awake too. Guess he won't wake up again.”

“You didn't-” You gasp.

“You did,” Fred purrs. “You did this, precious.” He walks forward, closing out any space between you, and looms over you. “You've given yourself to me so many times; I own you. I can convince you to do anything.” He's so close to you, you can see the details in his unnatural eyes. “Either you keep pretending that you're a goody-two-shoes little bitch, and I'll treat you like one,” he says, resting his claw on your shoulder, “Or you give up and let me in, and we'll have some real fun, you and I.”

Fred smirks, eyes locked on yours, and snaps his fingers.

And you wake up.

You curse, looking at your ceiling. You really are awake now—you think. Your mind feels clear; not at all like you do when it's a hazy dream and you do things without having a good reason why.

You think you're awake.

This isn't the first time Fred's tried to convince you you're a killer, and lately, you aren't sure you'll be able to deny him. What's he trying to do? Break your will? What if you really do lose track of the real world, and he really can influence you when you're not asleep? You have no way of stopping Fred from pulling this shit on you (save for not sleeping at all; and you know that's hopeless. You don't want to spend hours of dreamtime with him after you inevitably fail such an attempt again, with his frustrations unleashed and his sarcasm rampant).

So you're awake. You think. You check your phone.

As it turns out, that coworker is still around. The guy posts publicly, so it's not like you can't see that he's tweeted something about his breakfast already. Fred lied. You purse your lips, and consider it a small mercy that Fred hasn't tricked you into actually killing someone.

Yet.

Of course, it's still Tuesday.

Fuck. You haven't even been in college for years.


	3. This Is Hell

There's so much blood.

You're on your knees; Fred's holding you from behind, making you face the room and its contents.

“Look at what you've done,” he proudly purrs into your ear.

You don't know. You don't know. Did you do that? Is this real? Are you dreaming?

You haven't known for a long time. You know he can come out of dreams now-you think. This could be anything.

You've given him so much time in dreams that you think he might be taking your body out for hunts of his own, in the day.

“Stop doing this,” you plead.

“Stop doing what?” Fred mutters. “Oh, please.” But he relents, or seems to. He pulls you back, sits against the wall and turns you against him, curling you into an embrace.

“Shh. Good little pet,” he says. “Letting Freddy have fun with you.”

Cruelest of all, he gives you time. Time to fall past tension into dread, and sobs. He holds you the entire time.

When the emotions have taken their course, he tilts your chin up and makes you look at him.

“You haven't got a fucking prayer,” Freddy says. “You really want to tell me I don't own you? That I can't make you experience whatever I want?”

Your eyes water, and Fred examines you with something like detachment.

“C'mon. Let me in. Let Freddy give you what you need,” he urges. “You'll never need to be afraid again.” He bares his teeth. “You'll be mine.” He lets his hands wander a little. “You won't have to care what anyone else thinks.”

You realize, then. The powerlessness; your surrender-it's been addictive; but you've tried to deny him for so long. The game between you, the way he hurts and pleasures, plays with his power over you, toys you into ever-more-drastic plights, and yet at the end you try to tell him no. You've never said it outright. Never told Fred, please. Fuck me up.

You've never really said you were his.

You know it's a bad idea. That bad things might happen to people. But even so, even knowing that, you haven't got any fight left in you.

Only need.

“I. Please, Freddy,” you beg.

And just as suddenly, as if he knows what you're thinking inside, Fred upends his claw and plunges it into your intestines.

“There you go.” Betrayal hurts so much, you think. No. The wound hurts, too. Is your body jerking? You can't tell. “Good little bitch,” Fred purrs. “Shouldn't come back to what hurt you, if you wanted to make it out alive.”

He leans down over you, ignoring your thwarted need and emptiness and pain, and you start to get a whole lot hazier.

What's happening? You think distantly. Why am I floating?

I'm not floating, you think. I'm just slipping... there's...

Fred, is that you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, hecking angst-land here. I wanted to explore being at that point where you know you shouldn't, but are willing to surrender anyway-- in a safe consensual scene I feel like that's a thing that happens, but of course when considering Fred, it's going to be about terrible bad things.  
And it's Fred, so our reader is not going to come out of this well.  
Or are they?


	4. Wake Up.

You are reading this; but you are not the reader in the story.

Freddy is holding them, now, looking down at their face. They're gone. What sustenance he gains from the kill has been taken. He spent a long time with this one, drawing out as many feelings and flavors as he could.

“So much for you,” Freddy says to them.

Then he looks up. “So what about you?

“Yeah, you.

“The one reading this.”

He's not smiling. “Yeah. You didn't think I don't know these things? You've seen my movies, right? I know shit.” He casts the 'reader's' body aside, stands up, and there you are. You're in the boiler room, for some reason. Alone, together with him. “Got some dream warrior power I'm supposed to know about?” He chuckles. “You haven't got a thing. You're here because you need a little attention from Uncle Freddy.”

He beckons, with his left hand. When you don't come closer, he sneers and strides forward, backing you against a rusty wall and trapping you there with his arm braced up on one side of you and the claw resting precariously on your hand, preventing you from sliding away.

“You're not real,” you say, echoes of Heather Langenkamp in your head. “This can't be real. I'm. Dreaming?”

“You damn well know you're readin' a story,” Fred says. His voice sounds like gravel and ash, and he's warm, and he's not letting you move at all. If anything, he's pressing closer. “There's no letting me in, not like they did. I can't go where your mind is...” He presses closer, pinning you while his free hand slides up and strokes your hair like you're a pet. “But you're getting' thoughts reading this, all the same.” He grins. “Is that so bad? Giving me a little space in your head. You know you're likin' what I can do for you. That first chapter, huh?”

“Not with you, I don't-”

“Oh please. Don't feel bad. You know very well you aren't going to snap 'cause I gave you a bloody kiss.” He tilts your head, gently tugging at your hair, and dips his face closer to your neck. “You're a doll. You aren't going to hurt anyone. Ain't my fault some people like abusing power.” He bites down on you. You make a conflicted, pleased sound. The claw is still there, and his movements are careless, and you're afraid he'll slit your fingers.

He licks at the bite, and it really does feel good; Fred lifts his head, lips covered in a non-negligible quantity of blood, and smiles widely at you.

“You're an asshole.” You tell him, in empty defiance.

“Thank you!” He preens. “Now what was that? 'Oh, I can't be here with Freddy, he's the bad guy?' ” He mocks you.

You try to put it into words; at the very least, you need him to know there's a line. “You're, like, the definition of an antagonist. You're not gentle unless you have a reason to be. You don't have a better nature, or a reason to stop. You love what you are.” There's no point in looking for indulgence in you—or mercy, you don't add.

“And why is that so bad?” He asks. “That was the genius of it, what Wes did. Wrote me a story where I could play all I wanted... but really, if anyone listened, he was writin' about knowing what was real. All those shit parents thinking they could stop me, that they could take the law into their own hands, that they could just tell their kids to stop making trouble and everything would be fine...” He grows angrier as he speaks, sarcastic, gleefully cruel.

“They couldn't save themselves at all, but it wasn't me who made 'em sheep.” Freddy mutters, pressed so close against you. “So what lesson did you learn, huh? That it's good to kill teenagers?”

You feel the claw slide, and you still your arm, unwilling to cut yourself if you try to push him away.

“Or did ya learn to watch out?” Fred's pressing the claw on purpose now. “That you can't trust the assholes around you who claim they're in charge?” He presses harder, and you flinch as you feel the blades slice into you. “Because they'll hurt you as much as what they're supposed to be protectin' you from. And let that get you, after all.”

He's watching you as he hurts you; as ever, Fred is not a good man, and he likes what he's seeing. He leaves the claw exactly where it is, lowers his lips to yours, and takes a long, blood-tasting, tonguey kiss. He draws it out. He's playing with you. When he breaks the kiss, he makes a low, thoughtful sound in his throat.

“I'm not gonna get all Candyman and wax Shakespeare about how not existing is better than bein' alive,” he sneers. “But I am going to tell- you- this,” he says, emphasizing each word with a slide of his blade. It hurts, but you're afraid that jerking your hand away will hurt significantly more.

“If I'm just a story. A metaphor maybe. Just the product of that egghead Craven's mind? Then I'm just the mirror. And you've got a whole world out there that I'm reflecting, that's scarier than anything I could ever do to you,” he says. “So. Who's the fool here? The dream who's givin' you a good time for his own benefit? Giving you an escape?” He takes the glove away, leans closer, focuses your attention wholly on him. “Or the idiot who thinks I'm bad when they're already living a nightmare?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, author talk corner times. I couldn't finish this in any happy way, but I could go New Nightmare and do something really meta. I liked that idea, and so this happened even before I finished chapter 2 and started 3.  
This is not an attempt to convince people that Fred is worth your time. It's absolutely Fred villain-monologuing to try to convince fiction!Reader that, though. (I always wanted to have Fred be a little more clever in New Nightmare, a little less instakilly, because I thought he'd have gotten farther and screwed up reality more if he'd tried). The arguments he makes are not wholly false (I'm definitely borrowing from Wes' thoughts himself, though selectively) because, well, that makes a better case than not, and Fred being my antagonist doesn't mean he has to be dumb.  
The best part is that it's very true-- the value of Fred as a fiction. Of course, the “fiction is useful because it gives you a space to experience even the scariest shit safely, and face it better when you inevitably face bad shit in the real world” argument doesn't apply if we're talking about a literal actually-could-talk to him Fred.... but don't try to tell him that. (talk about mirroring reality; though. seriously, if you know any manipulative asshats that aren't on a page: cut your losses and go. It will not change. Things will not get better.)


End file.
